


Living Dead Boy

by blue_pointer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, M/M, Memories of Brooklyn, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stucky - Freeform, love heals all wounds, swearing because Brooklyn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7066474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_pointer/pseuds/blue_pointer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember that missing scene on the quinjet?</p><p>The one that somehow connects Bucky being withdrawn and self-loathing with Bucky and Steve remembering Rockaway Beach right after they land in Siberia?</p><p>This is the one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Dead Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Sure, maybe there wasn't a scene that was cut from the film there.  
> But what if there was?  
> What if it went a little something like this...

The self-loathing is palpable.  
When it sits heavy with you like this, it’s like a physical weight on your chest. You can feel yourself being pushed down.

On your own, you might go for a walk, lift weights, practice your escape route--something physical to get your mind off it.

But you’re not on your own.  
This thought brings both comfort and terror.

You don’t deserve comfort anyway.   
You are a murderer, a terrorist, a weapon of mass destruction, not a man. Not a person with his own needs and feelings.  
Not you.  

Up until now, the will to survive--is it your own, or does that will belong to the Soldier?--has been so strong, you didn’t have the time to stop and think.

At 20,000 feet, there seems to be nothing but time.  
And Steve.  
_Steve..._

You don’t know why you lied to him at the apartment.

You’d practiced how that moment was going to go. Over and over in your head, you’d played and replayed exactly what you were going to say, how you were going to say it.  
Because you knew.  
One day he would come for you.  
And it didn’t matter how, so long as he came.

‘You’re Steve,’ you were going to say. ‘I remember you when you were smaller.’ And you do, a little. Vague, fuzzy memories of a frail body with a big personality. You feel warm, thinking of it now.

‘Bucky,’ he was going to say, ‘You have to come with me.’ And he would either be holding handcuffs or urging you to climb up behind him on the bike the way you used to do. The two of you would drive off...somewhere.

But that wasn’t how it had gone. You were nervous because they were coming for you again. But Steve had been there, too. You weren’t sure if he was working with _them_ , somehow. It made you lose trust in the one person you remembered as trustworthy.

You’d lied. ‘I read about you in a museum.’ What a ridiculous thing to say. You knew it, he knew it.

And then he’d asked the worst question. The worst, because there was only one answer. ‘You pulled me from the river. Why?’

_Because..._

Steve had been so angry at your answer. It was the wrong answer. You knew it, he knew it.

70 years ago, Bucky might have said to Steve, ‘If you already knew the answer, why’d you even ask?’  
But Bucky was dead.  
All that’s left of him is you, and that’s not good enough for Steve.

Everything leading up to this moment has been wrong.

Steve is giving up everything, he’s risking everything--  
for you.

People have thrown away their lives, hurt their friends because of you.  
_Because Steve thinks you’re Bucky,_ that insidious voice whispers inside your head.

 _Poor Steve,_ you think. It scares you to think what he’ll do when he finds out his friend is dead. And instead, there’s just you. 

The walking automaton, the asset, the weapon, the killing machine that doesn’t want to kill anymore.  
_You can’t even serve the purpose for which you were created anymore,_ the voice says in disgust. _Everyone would be better off if you would just go away._

 _But poor Steve_ , you think.  
He’s giving up everything, and all he’ll have left is you.  
You who aren’t worth the dust on the bottom of Steve’s shoes.

It’s not right.  
If your roles were reversed, Steve would do it for you.    
He wouldn’t let his best pal throw his life away.

You wish Steve had never found you.

No you don’t.  
There’s something inside you that needs Steve like lungs need air.  
It’s selfish, but that’s what the will to survive does.  

_Steve._

He’d do it for you.

“What’s gonna happen to your friends?” You force yourself to break the silence, because you can’t let Steve do this. Not for you.

 _Steve thinks I’m Bucky,_ you think. _I’m not. But I still can’t let him do this._

“Whatever it is,” he says, “I’ll deal with it.”

But that’s so clearly bullshit. A false bravado.  
The damage that was done to these friendships today, it’s not easily mended, if ever.

Not for you.  
And so you say it.

“I don’t know if I’m worth all this, Steve.”

Which is a lie. You do know. You know you’re not.  
Bucky might have been, but you’re not Bucky.  
Bucky died over 70 years ago.  
You’re all that’s left of him. A murderer--

“What you did all those years, that wasn’t you. You didn’t have a choice.”

And it gives you chills, because it’s like he’s reading your mind. Could he always do that? If only you could remember.

It doesn’t matter. Good old Steve, always seeing the glass half-full.

“I know,” you tell him, swallowing down the bile that rises in your throat like their faces do in your mind’s eye. All of them. Every last one. “But I did it.”

And Steve will never understand. Thank God. He’ll never know what this feels like.  
Because Steve wouldn’t have let them do that to him. Let them pull out his heart and put a stopwatch back in. Scramble his brains until he’d do anything they asked just so long as they let him go back to sleep after.  
They couldn’t have made Steve do anything.

And you blink, snap out of it, because suddenly he’s crouching down right in front of you. “Who’s flying the jet?” you ask, panicked because he’s right here. He’s so close, and you really needed a warning before this could happen.

He laughs. Oh my God, that smile. “I know you know what autopilot is, Buck,” he teases you.

 _Why is he treating me like this?_ you think. _I’m not his friend, I’m not that Bucky. God, but I wish I was._

“I know what autopilot is,” you say like the automaton you are. Don’t show anything. You don’t deserve this. Him. And he doesn’t deserve you. You’re not worth the dust on the bottom of Steve’s shoes.

His face is serious now. He’s trying to think of what to say.  
But what can you say?  
You shouldn’t be here. You never should have let this go so far.

“Steve--” you break the silence before he does. This has gone on long enough.

“Bucky.” And he’s got this intense look. This scary intense look, and you know that look. That’s his ‘I’m about to start a fight’ look.

You sit back a little. _Are we doing this? Is Steve going to fight me (again)?_

He takes a breath, and the wind goes out of his sails a little. He looks...nervous. “Dammit, Bucky, quit lookin’ at me like that!”

“Like what?” you answer in your automaton voice. You have no idea what’s happening.

“Like you don’t trust me!”

“I trust you, Steve,” you answer softly, your eyes downcast. It’s like a punch in the gut to admit it, this feeling that you can’t explain, this connection to a long-dead boy from Brooklyn that somehow still exists. Perhaps this is all that’s left of him: this feeling.

And then he’s bending over you. He’s grabbing your flesh-and-blood hand and he’s squeezing it in a tight fist and why is he touching you without warning you first? Doesn’t he know how dangerous that is? “Then, dammit, Bucky, why the hell don’t you believe me?”

“Believe--” Your lips are numb, and you can’t get the question out, and it doesn’t matter.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me right now?” Steve is upset.

Is Steve about to cry, or punch you? You’re not sure. _Steve…_

“Steve…”

“Are you worth all of this to me? Are you seriously asking me that, you jerk? You asshole! I just tore apart the Avengers for you, and you’re asking me why?”

“Steve,” You take a breath to explain. “I’m not worth--”

“Bullshit!” And this time he does punch you, but just in the shoulder. Your metal shoulder.

_Don’t hurt your hand, Steve._

“That’s fucking bullshit, and you know it!”

You know differently. But you’re not arguing anymore.

Because it’s not bullshit to Steve, and you can see that clearly now. You didn’t want to hope before. It was the kindness of Steve’s soft heart, you’d thought. It was for old time’s sake.

But Steve is crying now, and it’s your fault.

“Steve…” You reach up with your metal hand and brush a tear from his cheek. Steve always was a cry-baby. Your cry-baby. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying!” he sobs. Steve always used to say that.

“C’mere, you damn punk,” you sigh, and curl forward in your chair to put both arms around him. You’re still that automaton, but you can mimic the memory of this feeling. You can play the part until it feels human again. At least, you want to try. For Steve.

You feel him relax against you, and it feels...so intimate. You think you might throw up. Steve shouldn’t be this close to you--not _you_ \--you could hurt him.

“It’s like when we were kids,” he murmurs. He has no idea you’re about to toss your cookies down the back of his uniform.

“What is?” you choke out.

“I guess I did used to cry a lot.”

You lean back to look him in the eye. _Oh no._ Bad idea. His eyes are that greenish blue you dream about sometimes. You wish you hadn’t, but now you can’t look away. So you force yourself to play along.

“To be fair, you did get beat up a lot.” You smile. At least you think you might have smiled. Those muscles are so atrophied, you might have just grimaced instead, made some strange, frightening expression.

Nope, it must have been a smile, because Steve smiles back. “And you never tried to stop me!” he accuses.

You scoff. “Like I coulda stopped you from pickin’ fights with guys twice your size.” You flick his nose, playfully. His face is too close. Way too close to yours. “Dumbass.”

“Jerk.” His smile is tender.   
And you don’t deserve it.  
You’re not that guy anymore. The boy who died when he fell from the train. He’s gone.

“Stop!” Steve interrupts your plummet into the pit of despair. You glance up, guiltily, and let go of him. Oh shit, was your metal arm still holding on?

_Damn arm._

“Not that!” Steve grunts, for a moment trying in vain to put the metal arm back where it was around him and then giving up. He reaches out to rest his hands on your shoulders. “Stop that. What you just did.” You blink at him. “That falling down inside yourself thing that you do. Stop going away from me.”

He’s hit the nail on the head. But you can’t help it. There’s nowhere else for you to go.

“I’m here,” Steve insists. “Stay here with me, Buck. Please.” His breath huffs out; he’s frustrated. “I know it’s hard.”

But he doesn’t. How could he? It’s your job to make sure he never will.

“Buck.” He pats you gently on the cheek. “I mean it. You were doing it again.”

Chagrin. “Sorry.” You shake your head. “Steve, I can’t--” You want to tell him you can’t be this for him. You want to--God how you want to--but you’re not that kid anymore. That boy is dead.

Then you make the mistake of looking up into those eyes again, and you forget what you were going to say. You forget everything but Steve. “Steve.”

“Buck.”

 _Oh no._ You know that look. He’s going to kiss you. So you turn your face away so quick. You see him bow his head from the corner of your eye. Rejection. _How_ are you doing this to him? So much for not being a monster anymore.

“Talk to me, Buck,” he whispers.

“I don’t remember.” It’s like the threat of that kiss pushed you just a hair too far. It broke something inside you, and everything comes pouring out. “Steve, I don’t remember. What street I used to live on. My favorite food. The name of our school. I don’t remember any of it.”

But there’s more. Much, much more. All of these things, the boy from Brooklyn could have told you, but he’s dead. Lying at the bottom of that gorge in the snow.

The way Steve looks at you now. It’s pain. But it’s relief, too. Maybe because you’re not lying anymore. You know it, he knows it.

“It’s okay, Buck.” He smiles, reassuring, and squeezes your flesh-and-blood hand. “I’ll remember for you.”

And he has, you realize, all this time. He still remembers. He’s been remembering. “I’ll remember for both of us.”

It’s like this massive weight lifting off your chest. You can’t be that boy, that dead boy in the snow. But you can fill his shoes. With Steve’s help, you can play stand-in. For Steve. Because he needs this, you can tell. You smile at him, tentatively. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks, eyebrows lifting, like it was almost too easy.

“Okay.” You count a beat. “You punk-ass jerk.”

“ _You’re_ the jerk!” But he’s smiling so wide.

“You’re still a punk-ass.” And you’re smiling, too. “Go fly the plane, you moron, before we crash and die and never get to Siberia.”

“Yeah…” he scratches the back of his neck with a guilty look. “About that…”

“What?”

“We’ve pretty much just been flying around in circles so I could get up the nerve to make you talk.”

“What the hell--?” You laugh, because what the actual fuck? How did this punk-ass kid from down the street ever get to be a superhero? “I thought we were gonna save the world and crap.”

It’s a shit-eating grin, that’s the only way you can describe it. “Ain’t no world worth savin’ if my best pal ain’t talkin to me no more.”

You shake your head, because he’s serious. “Stevie--” This guy’s got some fucked-up priorities.

He leans his forehead against your forehead and just rests it there for an apology. “You damn jerk,” he mumbles.

Then you kiss him. Like a full-on, grab him by the face and tug him in, because who the fuck is this guy who would just let Zemo unleash the super soldiers because you’re not talking to him?

“What are you, crazy?” It’s hard to talk and breathe at the same time right now. He smells like sweat and shaving cream. You give him a little shove toward the pilot’s chair. “Go save the world, punk.”

“Not without you, Buck.” He grins, but he’s already getting up.  

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna make me fly the damn plane, too?” you ask, but you’re laughing. This guy. He stops and looks back at you like, ‘Maybe.’

“What are you gonna start cryin’ again if I don’t?” He’s too easy to bait.

“All right, that’s it!” And you know that look. That’s his ‘I’m gonna wrestle you to the ground’ look. And if he does that, you’ll never get to Siberia. So you jump out of your chair.

“Okay, okay, I give. Uncle. Now go fly the damn plane.”

But he’s not gonna let you get off that easy. This time when he punches you in the shoulder, you can feel it. He grabs you around the ribs and almost throws you, but settles on an awkward bear-hug instead. “Punk.” You muss his hair, because it was never this perfect.

“Jerk,” he sighs against you before letting go and heading for the pilot’s seat. You follow him. There’s no reason to sit alone in the back of the jet. Not anymore.

His smile says he knows you’re following him. He sits down and kicks out a trash bucket for you to sit on. You turn it upside-down, settle in, listen to the sound of the controls going back on manual, the hiss of the engine.

The view out the window is nothing. Just grey sky and ice. It’s like being alone together in space.

“Leaman Place,” he says, and brings you back. 

“What?”

“The street you used to live on.”

“Oh.” He really does remember.

“Your favorite food is pizza pie. What the heck they been feedin’ you at Hydra that you forgot that?”

You laugh. “Not pizza.”

“Eh, you can’t find a good slice outside of New York anyway,” he shrugs. His voice has that cocky tone of a small guy acting big that you missed so much.

“The school we went to was St. Francis...can’t believe you could forget about that.”

“Nuns?” you ask nervously, wondering if it might be better not to remember.

Steve laughs. “No, that was elementary school.”

You’re still glad you don’t remember.

“Hey,” he says, “You remember that time the soda fountain blew up, and you had to wear one of my shirts for the rest of the day?” Steve looks like he’s about to laugh. 

You don’t remember, but his smile draws out your own. And you can only imagine how a boys’ size large shirt would have fit your much larger frame at the time.

You think back to your notebook, probably still lying on the counter in Bucharest in the middle of your trashed little apartment. “Remember the time I made you ride the roller coaster?” You can’t remember what it was called or where that boardwalk was, but you remember the ride and Steve’s terrified little face.

Steve is quiet. You glance over. Did you say something wrong? “Did I misremember…?” you ask, because the quality of his silence is abnormal.

“That’s one of the last things you ever said to me, Buck.”

And you’re horrified. His last memory of you is being reminded of the time he threw up junk food on your shoes?

Steve turns to you with a teary smile. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Steve.” You reach out and touch one of his hands. “Watch where you’re flying, dummy.” He laughs, and you’ll never understand how his awkward giggle gives you life. But you’re smiling.

“Remember the time we beat up the Giacanni brothers for taking kids’ lunch money?” Steve asks.

“Oh man.” And you almost do. “One of them was huge!”

“And I thought jumping on his back was a good idea,” Steve adds.

“He broke one of your ribs!” You remember.

“Aw, it was just bruised some.” 

You play this game all the way to Siberia. And it’s good, because not only does it help you remember, it keeps you from going snowblind from that screaming white tundra of sheer terror you feel at just the thought of that place. Where you were kept. Where you were punished. Where you were conditioned and wiped and conditioned and wiped over and over again.

But so long as you and Steve play the You Remember? game, the terror feels far away.

Best of all, Steve feels close.  And you start to think, _Maybe I can do this. For Steve._

 


End file.
